


Do You Wanna Touch

by Brainygiirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018 Valentine's Day Challenge, 2018 Vday Challenge, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BAMF John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Dom John, Jealous John, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Possessive John, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a Brat, Smut, Songfic, Sub Sherlock, Top John, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13629207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Brainygiirl
Summary: Sherlock's been boxing for years, but John hasn't ever seen him. Sherlock convinces him he should.





	Do You Wanna Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to [PrettyxLittlexWriter](http://prettyxlittlexwriter.tumblr.com/) for coming up with the challenge.
> 
> Day 9: A kinky song
> 
> Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah) by Joan Jett, 1984.  
> It was a staple on MTV back in the day when they actually played music videos.
> 
> The story will make a lot more sense if you watch the [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSqp-W1pWoU) first.
> 
>    
> And thanks once again to tiaoconnell, a beta par excellence.

"Do You Wanna Touch Me" by Joan Jett

I'm a natural ma'am doin' all I can  
My temperature is runnin' high  
…  
Talking's fine if you got the time  
But I ain't got the time to spare, yeah  
…  
Do you wanna touch me there, where, there, yeah?  
Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

Beggin' on my knees baby, won't you please?  
Run your fingers through my hair

Right or wrong don't it turn you on  
Can't you see we're wastin' time, yeah?

 

As a general rule, the doctor John Watson disapproved of boxing. It was the opposite of everything he’d been taught in medical school. The physical body was supposed to be made whole and healthy, not bruised and battered, certainly not without intent. It was the same reason he hated war. But John found something, the same thing probably, that drew him to the enterprises despite himself. The fact that Sherlock indulged in the sweet science repelled him and enticed him at the same time. Sherlock had a standing sparring session set up by a trainer, Mickey Smith, he’d known since the days when Mycroft and Lestrade were desperate for something to keep him off his substances and out of his mind, when it tortured him and he needed to escape. Boxing centered him in the transport and in the present moment and blessedly turned off the mental machine. Deducing in the ring resulted in split lips and bloody noses and he was a quick study of course. He wasn’t a regular anymore, by any means, but at least once a month or six weeks, whenever they they’d been short of cases, he would pack his gear, give John a casual goodbye and head for the ring.

John had never worked up the nerve to go with him. He felt like he spent so much time trying to keep the madman’s mind and transport in one piece, he wasn’t sure he could stand seeing someone trying to cleave them apart. He insisted on inspecting him when he got home, fussing over every bruise and scratch. They both agreed that the end result of an evening’s sparring was acceptable, John laying tender kisses over every mark on Sherlock’s otherwise pearly skin and gentle love-making with lots of whining on Sherlock’s part over pretend aches and pains that John needed to pay attention to immediately; parts that John was fairly certain were not targets in a typical boxing match. The next morning Sherlock would argue half-heartedly that John was making an inordinate fuss, but John ignored him, which was, of course exactly what Sherlock expected.

Sherlock had been itchy in his skin over the last fortnight, without a single case over a four, and let John know he would be keeping his appointment that night. He was torn, as usual, between wanting to protect the world’s only consulting detective and getting him the hell out of the house for a little peace. He was driving him mad.

“You won’t let them hit you in the head, right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “It’s boxing, John, not ballet.”

Ballet.

In his mind’s eye, in a split second, John had Sherlock in a leotard and tights. Tights that went on for miles, clinging to the skin on his round arse, looking like a marble statue. He saw him bending over the barre, stretching out his back and arching…He licked his lips and took a breath to make a suggestion, but was preempted.

“I am _not_ taking up ballet, John _._ Get your mind out of the gutter, you.” Thoughtfully, he added, “Although, we could add a leotard to the costume box.” After a few moments, he continued in a husky voice. “Your birthday is coming up.”

John said, “Tights. Don’t forget tights.”

They stood together in silence for a few moments, until Sherlock shook his head, to clear it, and said, “Don’t wait up.” John grabbed him for a kiss and he left with his usual flourish.

John fretted about him for quarter of an hour, then luxuriated in the quiet and stillness of the flat, reading a trashy spy novel that Sherlock hadn’t ruined for him yet, and then taking a bath without anyone at all barging in and demanding attention. He ended the bath according to some internal clock that alerted him that Sherlock would be arriving shortly, insisting that he didn’t need any overprotective doctors cleaning up this rather serious scratch that might scar or worrying over that bruised rib, that you never could tell, might be broken. Why the stupid genius couldn’t just ask for what he wanted was something they were still working on.

Sure enough, as John was toweling off, Sherlock crashed through the door and then into the loo, flushed with his exercise, still wearing his trunks and peering into the mirror with one eye and judging the level of John’s concern with the other. “I was slow tonight. Mickey caught me on the cheek with a jab and he swears he didn’t hit me in the clinch, but I think there might be a bruise coming up over my kidney.” He looked at John with his innocent face, still believing it was effective on him after all these years, and said, “Do you think you could, uh, take a look at it for me? I’m sure it’s not serious, but kidney, you know.”

John had known Mickey for years and knew with certainty he’d rather knock himself out than deliver a kidney punch to Sherlock. He’d known him since Sherlock was a boy and was also quite familiar with Mycroft’s resources. And although John had no boxing skills to speak of, Mickey’d have to be suicidal to do serious damage to John’s property.

But genius must be indulged. “Hmm. Could be serious. You’d better go lay yourself down on the bed. I’ll get the liniment just in case. I might as well take care of that cheek as well.” He picked up his medical kit in addition to some extra lube from the medicine chest. He seemed to remember the tube in the night table was running low.

The next time there was a dearth of cases, John could tell by week three, that Sherlock would be heading for the gym. At odd moments he would shift from side to side or bounce on his toes, tells he didn’t even know he had. That morning in bed, John whispered in his ear, “Do you think you’ll want some takeaway after the gym tonight, or should I eat without you?” with a smile, which he half-heartedly tried to hide. It pushed buttons for Sherlock, to hear John make deductions, which, of course, John knew. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide and he rolled over on top of him and snogged him with vigor unusual for early morning. John indulged him smugly. When he was allowed to come up for breath, he rolled Sherlock back over, underneath him and said, “You think you’re the only one who can make deductions, brilliant boy?” Nibble on the lower lip. “All secret and mysterious you think you are.” Suck on the neck under the corner of his jaw. “I can read you like a book.” Squeeze of his nipple.

Sherlock pushed his hips up into John’s and tried to grind their erections together, but he slipped off of him and out of the bed. “Save it for after your workout tonight, gorgeous. I’ve got to go to work.” He was counting on Sherlock being too lazy to chase after him, and he was right.

“You’re a cruel man, John Watson. What makes you think I’ll even be in the mood tonight?” he said sulking.

Peeping from behind the door, he said, “You’re always in the mood. And even if you’re not, I’ll put you in it.” Sherlock sighed just happily enough to disturb his sulk. John was right, of course.

When he got home, John was expecting stroppy Sherlock. He was quite capable of reinstating a sulk at the drop of a hat, but John was afraid that the boredom might have sent him into a full-on black mood. To John’s surprise, he was positively cheerful. For him, in any case.

“John, I know you are ambivalent towards my boxing, but I’ve decided that you’re coming with me tonight. Boxing is an important activity in my life, and I go with you to the pub on occasion, even though I find it loathsome. Isn’t it right that you reciprocate?”

John was a bit startled. And then suspicious. That sounded almost like…Sherlock had been considering their…relationship? Asking for something. Completely out of character. Had to be an ulterior motive lurking somewhere. Unfortunately for John, his face was incapable of disguising his thoughts, and utterly transparent to Sherlock.

“I’m vaguely insulted that you are doubting my intentions. There is no subterfuge going on here. I simply want you to come with me. Besides everyone has been asking why you never come. Aren’t I allowed to show you off? I don’t want them thinking I’m ashamed of you. Some of them have been around forever: Jack, the cut man, he’s an old timer. Sean, he’s young for a coach, but a lot of them are around your age,” John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock corrected himself, “Our age.” Sherlock concentrated on packing up his kit on the sofa. “Of course there are some younger ones as well. Douglas, he’s been my cornerman a few times. Looks like a college student.” Sherlock’s lip quirked up in a half smile, which John noted with slightly furrowed eyebrows.

“You know I don’t know much about it, Sherlock. What does a cornerman do for you, exactly?’

“Exactly my point! You know nothing about one of my dearest pastimes, you don’t know any of the people I have--some type of social interaction with, not even what they look like.” He glanced back at John disapprovingly.

“A cornerman wipes the sweat off you, examines and inspects your skin for any injury, daubs any cuts. Holds up a water bottle for you to suck from. Doug is very hands on, squeezing muscles, rubbing knots, you know, trying to keep you warm and loose between rounds. He’s learned my physiology very well in a short time. Kasseem actually is a college student and he volunteers in exchange for the chance to work the heavy bag. It’s filling out his pectoralis major and deltoids quite nicely. He mostly cleans the locker room, hands the fellows their towels as they step out of the shower, you know. That many men changing clothes, sweating in one small room, takes a lot to keep up with maintenance.”

The fingers on John’s right hand began squeezing, his fingernails digging into his palm.

“Raul, the masseuse, has—“

“Masseuse? There’s a masseuse at the gym?”

“Oh yes, several. Gary is my favorite—“

“Favorite.” The blue light in his eyes seemed to be draining away, leaving them a somewhat steelier grey.

“—but Raul has worked out a few kinks in my thighs, that I’m sure—“

Abruptly, John’s characteristic authority returned. “You know, I think you’re right. I think I will come with you tonight. I’d like to know what’s going on in this,” he clenched his jaw, “gym…of yours.” 

Sherlock glanced around to make sure both John’s fists were clenching. Shoulders being thrown back. Lips being licked. Operation Feint and Jab was a go.

When they arrived at the nondescript corner building, Sherlock said, “It’s not much to look at…” It was a barebones gym, but the men inside were raucously cheerful. John was surprised and pleased to see how warmly Sherlock was welcomed, almost as if the men were friends of his, imagine that. He was momentarily sad that he’d neglected this part of Sherlock’s life, before his shoulders were being clasped, hand being shaken, and he was generally being introduced all around. Mickey gave them both hearty bear hugs. Sherlock actually looked bashful as he ducked into the locker room and John was delighted that his posh boy was popular with the regular kids. 

Mickey gave him the formal tour and John kept his eyes peeled for the fellows whose names he had engraved in his memory. He attempted a casual question. “So, Mickey, who’s the cornerman tonight?”

Mickey looked slightly impressed that John seemed to know a little jargon. He pointed toward a man in the center ring, kneeling in front of a short stool. “Jack’s on. Doug’s got a date. Might be getting serious.”

Doug was scratched off John's list for the time being. As they approached John couldn’t help but notice how close Jack was to the fighter’s crotch. His face. A few inches away from his crotch. John’s jaw twitched. His agitation increased when Jack stood up at Mickey’s call. A man no more than perhaps 10 years older than John himself faced them with an open smile. A full head of jet black hair, broad rippling shoulders and 6 feet at least.

 _Old-timer?_ he thought.

“Jack, this is John, Sherlock’s husband. Finally came round for a visit.”

Jack stuck out his hand and John gave him the sturdiest 5th Northumberland Fusiliers handshake of iron he could manage.

“Quite a grip there, captain. Ever thought of taking up sparring yourself?”

John gave him his death grin and said, “Never felt the need. Always been able to handle trouble without any fancy technique.”

Jack and Mickey laughed. “Sherlock’s told us a bit about your skill. I don’t doubt it,” Mickey said. John was mollified some, but resolved to keep an eye on the “old-timer”.

From a grey metal door, Sherlock reappeared in his boxing shoes and trunks. John immediately began to re-sort his “Top Sherlock Outfits” list. “Boxing Trunks” would definitely edge out “Rugby Kit”, but he’d have to reserve judgment until “Leotard and Tights” showed up. He tilted his head to get a different view. Might even surpass “Naked Coveralls.” No, perhaps not. But the profile he cut was certainly enough of a reason for John to make his presence known to Jack, Raul and Kasseem, and _whoever else was laying their eyes on him_ , he hissed. He was kicking himself thinking about how much cumulative skin Sherlock had been flashing around all these years.

Bouncing on his toes, Sherlock clapped his gloves together and Mickey said, “Why don’t you warm up on the bag, Featherweight?” He nodded and bounced over.

John gave a curious half smile and asked, “Featherweight? I don’t understand.”

“Naah, really, he’s a welterweight, where he should be now, thank god, but there have been times he hasn’t been able make weight for a bout. Forget about the days you could have knocked him over with a feather. The nickname stuck though.” Mickey shook his head. “The bad old days.”

“I still don’t understand.” John was of two minds about stories of the bad old days. On the one hand, he was eager to know even the smallest detail of Sherlock’s life before he’d met him. And of course, he still worried about his weight. But he had heard Greg and Mycroft speak of “the bad old days” and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly how bad they’d been.

“Oh, right, uh, let’s see. Featherweight is one of the lowest weight classes in boxing. You can only have a true bout between fighters in the same weight class. It’s like a jockey on a horse. If you don’t make the weight, the fight is off. We’d schedule bouts for Sherlock and he’d come in half a stone under, looking like a walking stick. Or, sometimes, worse, hyped up.” John tilted his head.

Mickey looked at John, then away. “Jittery on coke. High. Or. You know. Strung out, in a nod. Hasn’t happened in a long time. Not since you’ve been in the picture, mate.” Mickey threw his arm around John’s shoulder. “Thanks for that. For making him happy.”

The warmth in his chest helped expand his ribcage a bit, and John relaxed some.

Having had enough warm and fuzzy, Mickey blustered on. “Come sit ringside, watch your boy dance when he’s finished his warm-up.” He dragged up two battered metal chairs to the middle of the side of the ring opposite what would be Sherlock’s corner, where Jack had been working. They sat down together. Following the sound of the speed bag, he found Sherlock intensely focused, punching in a quick rhythm. John watched his fists flying, smoothly and gracefully and thought once again of ballet. The sight was riveting and John felt soothed and excited simultaneously.

When he reached some internal level of prepared, Sherlock stepped away from the bag and came toward the ring. He stepped into some kind of thick, padded jock strap that outlined his groin, actually directing the eye towards his pelvis, when you could take your eyes off the pale sculpted muscles of his chest. John’s jaw shifted from side to side.

Sherlock waited outside the ring, until the previous fighter stepped out, holding the rope up for him, and then stepped in. John watched with gritted teeth as Jack did all kinds of fussing over his Sherlock. He was touching his waistband, pulling on his padded jock strap, spreading something on his cheeks, touching his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his mouth. _What is he doing with his filthy fingers in Sherlock’s mouth?_

John channeled Ella, closing his eyes and reminding himself that when he felt his heart start to speed up and his breathing got shallow, he had techniques: counting, breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth, self-talk. His meditations were interrupted by the ringing of the bell. He was grateful for the distraction.

It was a pleasure watching Sherlock in the ring. What was the phrase? Float like a butterfly, sting like…a bee, that was it. He did float, like a bumblebee, despite his gangly legs. He was smooth and quick, his fists flicking out, faster than John could follow. His bumblebee. Once, his sparring partner grabbed Sherlock in a full body hug, and John blurted out, “What’s that? What are they doing?”

Mickey said, “That’s the clinch. It’s called the clinch. Normal part of a bout." Mickey gave him a sidelong glance. The bell rang surprisingly quickly and Sherlock returned to his corner and Jack, who got very busy with his hands. All over Sherlock. John decided the safest strategy was not to look. He chatted with Mickey, asking questions about the gym, gossiping about common acquaintances.

After three rounds, the bout was over and Jack took Sherlock by the cheeks—his cheeks!—and took something out of his mouth. He helped him step out of his groin protector _(Were his hands on his hips?_ ) and gave him a hug, which Sherlock didn’t return, which Jack didn’t seem to mind. When Sherlock turned away, Jack slapped him on the arse. The arse. His hand touched. Sherlock’s. Arse. John stood up and squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the testosterone flooding his system.

Sherlock came out of the ring glowing: sweaty and flushed with adrenaline, pink blotches rising up on a few areas of his otherwise white skin, where his sparring partner had made contact. A few of the fellows thumped him on the shoulder as he stepped down.

He searched for John, hopping from side-to-side and clapping his gloves together. When he found his eyes, he grinned with an open smile and John headed towards him, schooling his face, determined not to spoil this moment of joy for him. He stepped close, intending to hug him, but Sherlock held him at arm’s length. “You don’t want to embrace me, now, John. I’m dripping sweat.”

John ducked underneath his arms and pulled Sherlock’s head down to whisper fiercely in his ear. “I’ll hug you whenever I damn well please, you bloody, gorgeous thing,” and did exactly that. The ruddy, pink glow on Sherlock’s cheeks flared red and he tucked his head down in pleased embarrassment. John stepped back and said, “That…was amazing. As usual.”

A shy smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “I’m going to do a little work on the heavy bag and cool down. Then take a shower.” He turned towards the bag, and looked over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind the extra time, I’d like Raul to do a little work on my lower back. I think I feel some tightness there. Wouldn’t want to cramp up or anything.” 

He turned away again and heard John mutter, “Heaven forbid. Wouldn’t want to cramp up.” Sherlock grinned to himself.

After a few minutes on the heavy bag, Sherlock beckoned John over to the locker room. As they went through the heavy grey door, John felt like he had entered one of the shaky, amateur, gay porn videos he had been forced, totally against his will of course, to watch at uni. The locker room was as barebones as the rest of the building, harshly lit, grey, bare, and steamy. Standard layout, with 5 showerheads on one side, a sink and some toilet stalls, a wall of lockers and benches, two massage tables, and some cabinets holding towels on the other. One man was finishing up in the shower. John could tell this because the showers were open, as in without stalls or curtains, meaning that anyone taking a shower, and was naked, which Sherlock was about to be, was completely visible to anyone else in the room, including his Sherlock. Whose arse was about to be visible. And his other bits. Naked.

“Sherlock, wouldn’t you rather take a shower at home?” _Where I would be the only one watching your arse, all white and wet and slippery?_

Sherlock’s trunks were sliding over the swells of said arse and John couldn’t stop himself from glaring around, daring anyone to slide their eyes over his detective, even though the room was empty of anyone else at the moment.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I’m rank,” said Sherlock, lifting his arm to take a whiff. His nose wrinkled.

John took a step forward, realizing as he did so, that it would be completely inappropriate to smell for himself. He clenched and unclenched his fist and Sherlock sucked in his cheeks to disguise his smirk.

Irritated, John checked the door and said, “Well, hurry up about it, then.”

The other man finished dressing and nodded at the two of them on his way out.

In his most innocent voice, Sherlock asked, “Why are you in such a rush? Not enjoying yourself?” He looked positively mournful and John chastised himself.

“Berk, I couldn’t take my eyes off you out there and I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner. But hurry anyway. I’m…hungry.” _Yeah, that’ll work._

Sherlock huffed. “You’re always hungry.” Naked now, he stepped into the shower with his body wash and shampoo. It was the cedarwood scent, _more’s the pity,_ thought John. Practically irresistible. He marveled again, that no matter the setting, the man was shockingly beautiful. John licked his lips and glanced nervously towards the door again. He moved to stand between it and Sherlock, as if to screen him from anyone who might enter. Sherlock took his time, stretching out and groaning, as if his muscles were aching, at one point, bending over completely with his hands on his lower back. “Raul is really going to have to loosen this up for me,” he said, smiling to himself.

Both of John’s fists were clenching now. He looked around, a little frantic, looking for a reason to speed the bastard up. The clouds of steam began to roll out from the showerhead and John thought, Good, that’ll cover him up a bit. “It’s getting humid, Sherlock. My temperature’s running high.”*

Sherlock called casually, “Wait outside, then, I won’t be long.”

 _The bloody hell I will._ “Just hurry up.”

To his great displeasure, the door to the locker room open and in stepped a tall, very young looking man with dark brown skin and black eyes. His shoulders were enormous. _From working the heavy bag, no doubt. _He had a brilliant white smile and walked toward John with an outstretched hand. _Kasseem,_ he thought bitterly. He arranged his face into a tight smile and said, “You must be Kasseem. Sherlock’s told me all about you.”__

____

“I heard you were here. Nice to meet you. Though I must say, he hasn’t told us much about you.” He called over to Sherlock, “Keeping secrets, are you Featherweight?”

____

John looked in Sherlock's direction and thought, _Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn—_

____

Sherlock turned around and waved. John licked his lips and scraped them with his teeth.

____

To John, more quietly, Kasseem said, “I’d better get his towel, he hates to be kept waiting.” He walked to one of the cabinets and took out a large white towel and then stood at the edge of the tiled shower floor, waiting for Sherlock to finish, _staring right at his arse_ , although in fact, Kasseem kept turning his head around to chat with John. “What did you think of the bout? You’ve never seen him before, have you? He’s light on his feet, isn’t he?”

____

_I’ll be watching him from now on, you can believe that, mate._ “I quite enjoyed it. I’m definitely going to be coming back.”

____

Sherlock turned around and John desperately tried to think of something to say, to keep Kasseem’s eyes off his bloody… “So how long have you been hanging round the gym?”

____

Kasseem stuck the towel out to Sherlock and turned round toward John, _just in time_ , saying, “About a year now. They keep calling me a ring rat”—Sherlock barked out a laugh—“but it’s not true. They’re just teasing. They’re a great bunch of mates.”

____

John looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

____

Sherlock explained, sliding the towel across the skin of his back, between his two hands, _the damned exhibitionist_ , “Ring rats are the girls who follow the wrestling stars around, trying to get a leg over. Kasseem’s not the type,” he said teasingly. “He prefers boxers, don’t you Kasseem?”

____

Kasseem laughed and John fumed. “Hurry up Sherlock, it’s getting late.”

____

“Alright, alright. Kasseem, is Raul here? I’m going to need some sorting out.”

____

“I’ll go check.” He left.

____

“I really am getting hungry. Are you sure you need this massage?”

____

“Absolutely sure. I’ve been through this before. If Raul doesn’t take care of it, I’ll be struggling to move tomorrow.”

____

John clenched his jaw. “I could give you a rubdown when we get home, you know.”

____

Sherlock snorted. “Raul is a professional, John, you could hardly measure up.”

____

Sherlock watched him with the realization that while it might be a thrill to poke a bear with a stick, you'd better know when to stop.

____

John narrowed his eyes at him and took a step forward.

____

Sherlock took two steps back and quickly said, “You know, it’s just that it’s his job and… he gets paid by the massage and he can really use the money and the tip I usually give him. It won’t take long, I promise.”

____

Crisis averted. Sherlock could see the blood draining from John’s neck as it returned to its normal color.

____

With a deep breath, John tried to relax his shoulders and rumbled, “Let’s see that it doesn’t. I’m hungry, remember?” He gave him the look Sherlock imagined a bear would give upon being poked.

____

Sherlock ducked his head and fastened the towel around his waist. “Yes, John. Sorry.”

____

John told himself he was being unreasonable and sat on the bench in front of the lockers. Sherlock sat down beside him and said, “I’m really… that is…I--you know…” John rescued him.

____

“I’m glad I came too. Sorry if I was short with you.”

____

“You’re always a bear with a sore head when you’re hungry. I’m used to it by now.” He gave him a kiss and John felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.

____

Until Raul walked in the door.

____

Kasseem was a decent looking chap, but Raul was beyond fit. He had straight brown hair, parted on the side, revealing a wide forehead. A few stray locks peeked out from behind his neck and over his ears, giving the impression that he was probably overdue a couple of weeks for a haircut. It provoked the impulse to tuck them away. His winged eyebrows gave him a soft, open expression. Under his straight narrow nose, he had the shadow of a mustache and beard, which failed to disguise his youthful appearance. He was positively lush.

____

John stiffened and turned to look daggers at Sherlock who was suddenly regretting his insistence. John gripped the front edge of the bench. Time to give up the game. Sherlock leaned over and gripped the back of John’s head. With his other hand, he tugged up his shirt in back, then slid it down into his trousers. He gave him a kiss which left no doubt where his priorities were. After a lovely few seconds, he whispered in John’s ear, “Jealous yet?” He pulled away and looked at John with a wicked grin.

____

Raul walked over greet John but he had to wait while the man stared at Sherlock unbelievingly. Coming back to himself, he grinned back at him and said, “You wanker.”

____

Sherlock got up wrapped in nothing but his towel and took his place on the massage table. John shook Raul’s hand with the genuine warmth he’d enjoyed from everyone at the gym. He released his hand and Raul went to perform his duties.

____

“What’s the trouble tonight, Featherweight?”

____

Sherlock explained and Raul began to rub and pummel him. When he was facing the wall, Sherlock looked at John, gave him a cheeky wink and began to moan under Raul’s fingers.

____

Raul said, “Is that the spot, then?”

____

If John hadn’t been watching him in real time, he’d have sworn that Sherlock was having the shag of his life. He whined and groaned and made lascivious faces at his husband. John shook his head at him in amused outrage, realizing how well he’d been played. He laughed to himself and swore revenge.

____

When Raul declared the knot vanquished, Sherlock popped up and shook hands. “How’s your wife, Raul, how far along is she now?”

____

“Another month to go, but she says this one’s been the hardest yet and she’ll not be having another, even if it is another boy.”

____

Sherlock looked at John and said, “Raul looks like a baby himself, but he’s got 3 boys at home.” He walked over to his locker and took out some notes, which he handed to Raul, saying, “Give my regards to Yvette.”

____

“Always. And nice to meet you, John.”

____

“Same here, mate.” They shook hands again.

____

John waited till Raul left the locker room and pounced on Sherlock. He grabbed a fistful of his still damp hair and pulled him down for a vicious kiss. Sherlock hummed and grabbed him back. John said, “You cock. You are in for it.”

____

Sherlock turned away smiling but refused to make eye contact. “Promise?” He opened his locker and took out his clothes. “Will you go out to the machine and get me a bottle of water, anyway? Because you love me?” He turned towards him with a mockingly sad smile. John looked down with a rueful grin. He pointed at him and left him to get dressed.

____

By the time John got back, Sherlock was buttoned up in his coat and ready to leave. He’d obviously been counting on the silly little brains of the gym members to fail to notice his trousers. Only John would be quick enough to observe that he had switched out his usual bespoke wool for black leather. While John tried to process the image of _Sherlock. Skintight black leather, _Sherlock took the bottle he had brought and drained it. John grinned at him and clutched his arse. “These are not gonna make me forget about it, Sherlock.”__

____

____

____

He picked up the kit bag and carried it for him out to the main room. Hearty goodbyes were yelled from all over the gym and a series of men came over to shake hands, once again, with John and Sherlock. Mickey wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than another hug and Sherlock smiled teasingly over his shoulder at John who lifted his eyebrows at him.

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As soon as the door closed behind them, John took hold of Sherlock, dragged him around the corner of the building and pushed him up against the wall. He had a dangerous smile on his face. “What were you playing at, Sherlock? Trying to fire me up. Letting everybody put their hands on you, flashing your bits for them? Letting them touch you?”

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He shoved his hips up against him and pulled his head down. He grabbed his lower lip between his teeth and tugged on it.

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Sherlock closed his eyes and whimpered. He reached to put his arms around him, but John pulled away. Sherlock looked up and down the street quickly, grabbed the edges of his coat and pulled them open.

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John’s jaw dropped and he took two steps back.

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Sherlock was wearing chaps. Nothing but a pair of chaps. Made of black leather. They were basically a pair of leather trouser legs attached on either side of his hips to a belt. They hugged his thighs like…ballet tights. The top of each leg was cut off on the diagonal, leaving a perfect triangle of Sherlock's pelvis completely bare. His white skin positively glowed in the blue security light from the building, the dark curls trailing down from his navel and running below the belt, looking jet black, not their true chestnut. He flapped the coat shut again and looked around the corner to check the door of the gym. In a low gruff voice, he asked, “Do you wanna touch? Do you wanna touch me*…” He pulled the coat open again. “There?”*

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John licked his lips and looked up and down the street. “Where?”*

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“You know where,”* Sherlock said looking down at himself with a smirk.

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“Oh, I’m gonna touch you. I’m gonna touch you wherever the fuck I want.” He stepped forward and cupped Sherlock’s exposed groin. Growling, he said, “Everywhere.” Sherlock sucked in a breath that ruffled John’s hair. John stepped back to look at the gym door, up and down the street again and said, “But where? Sherlock, where can we go? We’re going to need time.” With a slight squeeze of his hand, he stepped into Sherlock and said, “Not a lot, but enough to get the job done properly.” He clutched a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back. He watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed.

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“Hurry. Think!” Sherlock was somewhat incapable of rational thought while John was cupping his bollocks, but John persisted. “There’s no one in sight now, but we haven’t got the time to spare.”* He looked down at his hand, panting. “You’re naked. Christ on the cross, you’re fucking naked.” He pushed his head back down and kissed him, open-mouthed.

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Even if Sherlock had been able to construct a sentence, he wouldn’t have been able to articulate it. His mouth was too dry to speak. John took another quick glance around the corner.“Where can we go? Hurry up! You know a place Sherlock, you’ve got the bloody map of London in your head. Can’t you see we’re wasting time?”* John ran his hand up the center of Sherlock’s chest, which was rising and falling rapidly. “Oh God, somebody’s gonna come out of the gym any second. Is your arse naked too?” He commanded now, “Think!”

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Sherlock stammered and spluttered and it took a few more seconds before John realized, finally, that coherent words would not be coming out of Sherlock’s mouth until John took his hand from between his legs. His clothed legs. The only part of his body with clothes on it, except for the coat. _God bless that poncey coat. _John took said coat by the collar with his hands and gave Sherlock a shake. “You had a plan. Where are we supposed to go? Sherlock! Use your words!”__

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Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to draw in more oxygen. He could only gasp out a few words at a time. “Back. Around back, five buildings down. Skips. Bins.”

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John growled at him, “Close your coat and let’s go.” Sherlock clutched the coat with one hand and John grabbed the other, running a few steps, until he realized the coat was flapping in his wake. He shifted to a slower pace, but his head was still swiveling, keeping an eye out for anybody who might question their motives. He was finding it difficult to accommodate the increasing pressure in his trousers.

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John almost overran the gap between the buildings and Sherlock pulled him to a stop. “Here.”

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John did recon. The alley was lit by a single meagre bulb. The others had all been broken off in their sockets. There were two skips on one side and three on the other, with bins in between them. The arrangement would leave them almost completely sheltered from the street. John was weak with relief, as walking was quickly becoming impossible. They had to weave in between the obstructions and he pulled Sherlock towards the back of the alcove and stopped in his tracks. There were concrete stairs flush against the wall leading up to a door, held shut with a lock and chain. There was a handrail made of pipe on the other side. The top step was just about waist high. Sherlock’s waist high. John turned to him with a conspiratorial smile. “You knew exactly what you were doing. How long have you been plotting this, you sly fox?"

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Sherlock was too aroused to smile. He was staring open-mouthed at John and it took him a few shallow breaths before he could answer. “Finding the spot was easy. Arranging the skips took weeks. I put out the lightbulbs one at a time. Took forever.”

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John grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him close and tight. “Anybody ever tell you you're a genius?” He bit the side of his neck and scraped the surface of his skin with his teeth.

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Sherlock answered brilliantly.

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“Aaaangh…”

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“Tell me you brought lube, ‘cause I’m gonna fuck you in this alley, over those steps, till you can’t walk. Remind you who you belong to.” He pulled the collar of the coat off his shoulder and sucked another bruise over his collarbone.

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Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders and threw his head back, and made another insightful comment, “HHmmmmnnaaah.”

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“Teach you how to behave. Fucking bouncing around on your toes like a dancer, showing off for everyone. I was ready to kill those fuckers for putting their eyes on you. Where’s the bloody lube? Where did you put it?” He was rucking up the pockets in Sherlock’s coat, searching the inside lining.

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Sherlock was panting. “We don’t need it.”

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John snarled at him, “Oh, I don’t need it, but you’re gonna want it. And be quick about it. You've kept me strung up tight for way too long.” He had one hand wrapped around Sherlock's neck, the other gripping a handful of curls, still wet from the shower, and it triggered the thought of him, turning to look at Kasseem, covered with nothing but soap. It burned in John's chest and rumbled up through his throat as a growl.

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He pulled Sherlock’s mouth down to his own and crashed into his lips, reaching into his mouth and licking across his teeth. Reaching for his tongue and trapping it against them. “What made you think it was ok to tease me like that? Letting everyone put their hands all over you, slapping your arse. It’s mine. Your arse is mine, Sherlock. Nobody slaps it but me, you hear me? Where's the lube? Where is it? Did you stash it somewhere? Otherwise, I'm gonna fuck you raw and you’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow. I’m not waiting anymore, you--” He let go and turned to look, to see if Sherlock had hidden it somewhere, maybe over by the stairs?

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Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. He choked out the same words, “We don’t need it,” and took John’s hand, guiding it under his coat and around his hip to the cheek of his arse. John gripped the perfect curve of it and squeezed. Sherlock ground his hips backward against his hand and the tips of John’s fingers slid on something slippery. He froze, then gingerly allowed his fingers to follow the trail of slick into the crevice. Sherlock was dripping with lube. Sherlock guided John’s hand further down and let him feel how it had spread to cover his perineum and his bollocks. John’s breath was puffing against Sherlock's neck, fast and shallow, his erection strangled against the tightness of his trousers.

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“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He sounded genuinely reverent. “You got yourself ready.” John pulled back to stare at him with widened eyes, black pupils crowding out the blue, with the low light and pure lust.

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Sherlock was flushed red from his chest to his cheeks, with the combination of arousal and embarrassment that set John’s cock pulsing. Sherlock buried his face in John’s hair to hide. With his trembling fingers he brought John’s hand back around and along the delicate skin, covered with goosebumps. When he felt the base of the plug that Sherlock had buried inside him, John’s knees wobbled. He grabbed onto the sleeve of the coat to steady himself. “Fucking hell.” He swallowed and as he ran his fingers over it lightly, Sherlock shuddered. John rasped out, “How long have you had it in?"

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Sherlock was breathless. “I took it out to box. Otherwise…”, he trailed off, trying to suck in some air, “since I decided you were coming with me.”

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John rumbled, “Now. Now.” He grabbed the lapels of the coat and dragged Sherlock to the steps. He took off his own jacket and laid it on the top step, trying to cover the concrete to spare the tender expanse of Sherlock’s pale chest. There were already pink scrapes on him from the gloves that had hit him during the bout and John wasn’t planning on being gentle. Sherlock had been goading him all night and had had a goal in mind: it wasn’t lovemaking. The least he could do was spare his skin. He stepped back to release his rock hard cock and Sherlock pushed past him to stand in front of the steps. The coat began to slip off his shoulders as he grabbed the lapels to remove it.

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“No, leave it on,” John ordered him. Sherlock obeyed and looked over his shoulder at him. He tilted up his chin and lay himself slowly over the spread-out jacket, head turning to the side on his crossed arms. John took another look toward the street and then moved on him, sweeping the coat to one side, over Sherlock’s hip. With one arm he grabbed him around the waist, using the other to rub the bit of skin on the inside of his thighs that was left exposed by the leather of the chaps. The back of his hand nudged up against Sherlock’s bollocks and he spread his legs wider, hoping to give John more access.

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Instead, he spanked him on the arse and Sherlock jerked with a gasp. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He gave him another and said, “You were working to get me angry enough to bend you over in an alley and spank you, weren’t you?” Sherlock wriggled at the words, burning and whimpering with the delicious shame of it. John spanked him again, the sound shockingly loud, bouncing around the walls they were surrounded by. “You were gonna misbehave until I got angry enough to punish you, right out on the street.”

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Sherlock whined and wiggled his arse around trying to find John’s hand. “And you knew I was gonna fuck you after that too.” He gave him another slap then leaned down to bite him. Sherlock gulped in air, as if maybe he could swallow it, since he didn’t seem to be able to draw in any to his lungs. “Well, you got what you wanted.”

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He smacked him again and left his hand in place, rubbing the skin and squeezing the flesh. The way Sherlock was grinding and clenching his cheeks caused the plug to ease in and out of his swollen hole and John took advantage of the movement to grip and twist it. Sherlock bucked, almost wrenching it from between John’s fingers, but he held on and began to tug, just enough pull it up against the rim of muscle holding it in place.

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Sherlock’s hips twisted and a hollow whistling sound accompanied his intake of breath. The noise kicked John’s drive up another notch and he began to remove the plug with purpose. “Bear down now.” John watched, mesmerised, as the plug was pushed past the outer ring and then eased, free, into his hand. Not willing to take his eyes off Sherlock’s winking hole, he tossed the plug over his shoulder toward the closest skip. It bounced off the top, clanging, and rolled underneath. He muttered, “Missed.”

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Sherlock murmured petulantly, “I liked that one.”

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As he scooped up some of the lubricant that had leaked out along with the plug, John kissed the dimple of Sherlock's lower back. “Shut up. I’ll buy you another. Now, pay attention. You’ve got the real thing.” He slicked himself and directed his cock towards the emptiness the plug had left. Sherlock was so ready for him, John was comfortable skipping his usual foreplay, the methodical (tedious and unnecessary according to Sherlock) stretching of his passageway. He slid, forever, into the slippery, wet heat in one long, slow push. His breath caught in his throat as Sherlock whimpered beneath him.

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When he reached bottom, John sighed the deep satisfaction of a man who’d reached the end of a long journey. “Yeah… oh yeah… oh yeah…”* He stood and looked down, enjoying the view of himself, buried balls deep in Sherlock, his white arse gleaming beside the shining black leather and rich grey wool of the Belstaff. His rim was stretched, pink and drawn thin by John’s girth. He gripped Sherlock’s hips and held still, just tightening the muscles of his hips, thighs and pelvis, savoring the thrum of blood in his veins and the grasping of Sherlock around him.

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Sherlock grew impatient with the sightseeing and whined. He pushed back with his hips and John gave him another smack. “You’ll not be rushing me now, boyo. After keeping me on edge all night.” Another two spanks and John admired the way Sherlock's flesh jiggled and then bounced back into shape. “Keep still. You had your fun, now I’ll have mine.” He moved his hips in slow circles, like he was learning the tiniest idiosyncrasies of Sherlock’s arsehole with his cock, so he could draw it from the inside, so he could absorb it, so it became part of his own flesh.

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Sherlock began to tremble, clutching at the concrete and trying to control his frantic desire to… “Move, please, John, move. Fuck me.”

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John came to with a gasp, like a swimmer whose head had burst up from the water, drew himself back and slammed into Sherlock, who grunted with the impact. “Yeah… oh yeah… oh yeah…* Again, faster.”

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John complied, driven by the building tension in his bollocks and the lingering (thrilling?) fear of someone happening upon them. He pinioned Sherlock with one hand on his back, the other clutching his hipbone, and he thrust wildly, in and out. The sound echoing around the alley now was that of John’s hips smacking into Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock moaned at the lewdness of it: the sound of being fucked in an alley. He shivered.

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The force of John’s lunging was sliding Sherlock’s chest back and forth across the slippery lining of John’s jacket, weakening the impact. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and braced his hands on the concrete to meet John's unstoppable force as an immovable object.

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John used the hand he liberated from Sherlock’s back to reach under him and coat his hand in the lube still leaking down onto Sherlock’s bollocks. When it was slick enough he took hold of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock didn’t know whether to push forward into the fist stroking him or back onto the cock splitting him open. He went with both and between the two of them, they set up a rhythm that sent them hurtling towards a climax. John had no breath for anything but keeping up the punishing pace, while Sherlock was pleading and moaning, “Please, John, please, yes, more, don’t stop, John, John, John…” gradually devolving into babble as he got closer and closer.

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Sherlock suddenly arched his back and stiffened and then he was coming all over John’s fist and jacket. When he finally went limp and finished shuddering, John returned to his two-handed hold of Sherlock’s hips, and his onslaught, panting and pumping, chasing the orgasm that was coiled tight in his belly, collecting itself at the base of his groin. Sherlock groaned in overstimulation as John found his prostate, and the knowledge that he had wrung him dry, sent John spinning into a funnel of sensation. He came with a groan and collapsed on top of Sherlock, unable to move, both from physical exhaustion and the strength of his climax. He rode it out and recovered slowly. Eventually, his concern over their precarious position and his lover’s likely discomfort roused him.

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He rose off Sherlock’s back and came around on his side and pulled him up to standing. John reached for his jacket and searched the pockets for tissues. He gave a handful to Sherlock and then took a closer look at the jacket. He held it away from him in disgust “Ugh. This is going to have to go to the cleaners.” He wiped at the smears with some more tissues. The temperature had dropped and he was going to need it. Sherlock was still standing, tissues in hand when John turned back around and John laughed at his faraway expression. “Need a hand?”

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No verbal response was forthcoming, just a vague sort of glance in his direction, so John took back the tissues and did his best to wipe away the evidence of the celebration left smeared all over Sherlock’s arse. He did his best, but tissues were not going to do the job. He weighed the relative value of searching Sherlock’s gym bag for a towel, but he was a bit wobbly and John didn’t want to leave him standing by himself. _Bugger the coat_ _, it's going to have to be cleaned anyway._ He draped Sherlock’s arm across his shoulder and helped him around the railing so he could sit on the steps. As he sat, Sherlock grimaced and grunted out an unhappy sound. John winced in sympathy and brushed the hair from his forehead and kissed him. "Sorry, love. You ok? I got carried away."

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Sherlock took his hand and laid it against his cheek. "It was everything I was hoping for."

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John smiled and turned away to put his jacket on. The wet spots triggered another wince. “This is disgusting.”

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Sherlock smirked in a dazed kind of way at him. “You can borrow mine.”

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John gave him a severe look. “I thought we’d established that you’re to stay covered in public. And besides, yours is not much better.” Sherlock looked startled and stood up, pulling the coat to the side to try to get a look at the lining, but John smacked his hand. “Button that up and leave it alone. We’ll take care of it when we get home.” To himself mostly, “Speaking of which, how are we going to get home? Not even you are going to be able to get a cab from here...Budge over.” John sat down next to him and Sherlock leaned his head onto his shoulder.

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They sat in loose-limbed lethargy for a while, but the temperature kept dropping and John said, “We’re both gonna start cramping up if we don’t get someplace warm soon.”

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Sherlock snuggled closer. “Can’t we just sleep here? Run your fingers through my hair,*” pouting, then demanding in turn.

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John complied again, affectionately combing said fingers through the curls and kissing his forehead. “Tired, is he? Too much excitement. You worked yourself up properly too, didn't you? No, wake up. I’ll gladly fuck you in an alley, but I won’t let you sleep in one.” He tousled and scratched at his scalp. “Think, Sherlock, where can we get a cab?”

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Still whiny, he said, “What time is it? There’s a pub, 8 blocks down. We can probably catch one there.”

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“You going to be able to walk?

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“No.”

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John stood and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, up you get.”

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“Can’t you carry me?”

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“No.”

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Sherlock sighed in resignation. “I guess I don’t have a choice then.” He groaned and stretched and John retrieved the gym bag. As they walked through the maze of bins, Sherlock looked back wistfully and said, “I’m sorry to lose that plug.”

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John chuckled at him. “Isn’t my birthday coming up? There’s an excuse to get one.”

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Sherlock looked at him skeptically. “It’s not supposed to be for you.”

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John gave him a filthy look. “You sure? I rather enjoyed it this evening.” He reached behind him and gave his bum a swat.

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Sherlock attempted to gather his dignity around himself and ignored him. His efforts were undermined by his awkward, halting steps. He shifted and winced, experimenting with his stride and John found his unusual lack of grace inordinately endearing. The walk took them longer than it usually would have.

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The next week was far more interesting in terms of cases, and far too busy to consider a session at the ring. John was looking forward to a domestic weekend, to make up for Sherlock’s complete disinterest in food, sleep, and/or sex. On Saturday morning, Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, “Ooh-hoo, boys. Package.”

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John looked at Sherlock as he headed down the stairs and asked, “Were you expecting something?” He ignored him, which John deciphered as “No.”

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It was a nondescript box, wrapped in plain brown paper, with anonymous labels, addressed to Sherlock. John handed it over and Sherlock sneered, which John interpreted as Mycroft. “Shall I open it then? I’m assuming it’s safe.”

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“Hmph.” John translated, “I don’t care,” and so he opened it.

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There was a note on top, in fact from Mycroft, and John read it aloud.

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"Brother Mine:

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Imagine my delight upon being informed that the couple engaged in, shall we say, questionable activities, outside the gym, which I have had under surveillance since the days of your misguided youth, were none other than Mr. Holmes, the younger, and his lawfully wedded spouse. I would ask that in the future, you  confine your conjugal activities to legally permissible venues, which I and my surrogates are reasonably unlikely to discover in the normal course of the business of the British Empire, and/or the preservation of your life and liberty; indoors, preferably. I refuse to guarantee you or your husband immunity against prosecution for public indecency.

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According to the laws of evidence, I must retain a copy of all properly obtained intelligence for 20 years, but I thought you should at least have the opportunity to retain a copy to share with your solicitor should it become necessary for your defense at some point in the future.” John interrupted to rummage around in the box for a memory stick, which he held up to show Sherlock. He put it down on the table as Sherlock paled.

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John continued reading:

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“And try to take better care of your toys. I would hate to have to tell Mummy that you were still leaving them lying around."

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John tossed an object carefully wrapped in clingfilm and sealed inside a biohazard bag to Sherlock, who caught it neatly on the fly.

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“Oh, God.”

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John looked positively gleeful. “You see, Sherlock? You’re always complaining about Mycroft’s interference. He can be quite helpful on occasion.”

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**Author's Note:**

> [These are the chaps I imagined Sherlock wearing, only tighter. Bespoke of course.](https://www.foxcreekleather.com/build-your-own-motorcycle-chaps/)
> 
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> [Comments are my lifeblood. If you can't think of anything to say, consider this.](http://dawnfelagund.tumblr.com/post/170618220828/101-comment-starters)


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